


Wake Up Call

by mahons_ondine



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:43:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4646055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahons_ondine/pseuds/mahons_ondine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is, quite frankly, exhausted beyond all reason.  Also, he's a little confused.  About men.  About Eames.  About why his cock really seems to like the idea of a tussle where he actually loses for once.  </p>
<p>But none of that really means anything.  It's probably just the exhaustion. . . Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my usual fare! I don't write a lot of prose, and I haven't written any fanfiction in years, but I recently fell in love with this fandom and I couldn't get the idea out of my head. This is unbetaed, and, although I proofread it, I may have missed some mistakes. Please let me know if I have! 
> 
> There is more to come. I hope you enjoy reading this as much I've enjoyed writing it!

When Arthur leaves the Fischer job he’s pretty sure he’s not going to work for a while.  Work may sustain him most of the time, but it’s sustained him for far too long as he’s followed Dom across half the world and kept him from losing his ever-loving mind after he lost Mal.  Now that Dom is with his kids, and he doesn’t need to be responsible for him anymore, well, he thinks perhaps he should just take a break from being responsible for anyone and he goes home.  To one of his homes, anyway. 

Arthur stumbles his way onto a flight to Dallas and then a flight to Cincinnati and then D.C. and then New York.  It’s a few legs shorter than he’d normally take in the interest of obfuscation, but he sacrifices a little bit of extra security because he’s just so goddamned tired.  When he leaves the terminal it’s pretty late, but this is New York and he has no trouble finding a cab to take him on the endless journey from Queens.  He gives the cabbie the cross streets of a 24 hour deli a few blocks from his house—part obfuscation again, part need for milk for his coffee.  He practically falls out of the cab, picks up his milk and a sandwich and makes his slow way home to his apartment in the West Village. It’s a walkup and the second bedroom is barely big enough for an office, but it’s gorgeous and quiet and just what he needs right now. 

He fits his key into the lock and slumps through the door.  It smells musty.  It’s been at least six months since he’s been here and no one has dropped in to check on the place.  He’s lucky it just needs a good cleaning and isn’t full of squatters or something.  He drops his bags on the floor just beyond the couch; slips the milk into the fridge; grabs his sandwich and heads to his bedroom.  Striping out of his clothes, he forgets that he still has his shoes on and ends up tripping over his own feet and landing on his bed.  The cloud of dust this elicits makes him sneeze and hack while he toes off his shoes.  It’s mostly the comforter that needs changing though, so he just strips it off the bed, curls up under the sheets and makes it about halfway through his greasy bacon, egg and cheese before he falls asleep wrapped around it protectively. 

He sleeps for about 20 hours the first night.  At least he thinks he sleeps that long, but he must have roused himself at some point because there’s a glass of water perched on his bedside table alongside the desiccated remains of his sandwich.  He’s starving so he heats up a can of soup and drinks it straight out of the bowl.  He follows that up with a glass of the milk.  He might as well drink it since it looks like coffee isn’t in the cards, and once he’s done Arthur is so warm and full he falls asleep again practically before he hits the pillow. 

And that’s about how it goes for the next week and a half or so.  He’s loses track of the date after a while.  Mostly he sleeps.  He cannibalizes the contents of his kitchen cabinets, eating everything within the sell by date, and not a few things that aren’t and when that’s done he calls out for pizza, Chinese, anything he’s got a menu for in a messy drawer in his kitchen.  He uses the landline.  No one has the landline.  He forgot to plug his phone in the first night, and when he wakes up it’s died and he takes it as a sign.  No one really needs him to answer.  If they’re calling him for a job well then he wouldn’t take it anyway.  His sister rarely calls and will hardly expect him to jump and call her back.  And Dom, well, Dom has the kids and if that’s not enough for him then nothing Arthur is going to be able to provide will be enough either.  The phone is dead and he lets it stay dead. 

And that’s it.  For almost two weeks he eats; he sleeps; he calls out for more food.  Sometimes he falls asleep in bed.  Sometimes he falls asleep while watching the overpriced monstrosity of a television in the living room.  It’s never seen so much use before, and he figures it’s time.  He showers every couple of days, but he doesn’t bother getting dressed.  He’s frankly too tired.  He’s been on for so long.  He’s kept his head together; kept _Dom’s_ head together practically by sheer force of will and he owes himself a vacation from the world.  Even if he didn’t, well, he needs one.  He doesn’t really think about when it will end.  It will be over when he needs it to be over and that seems like a good enough answer.  That’s not, of course, how things turn out, but Arthur’s used to that too by now, and this time it might be for the best.  He’s not quite sure yet, but yeah, it might actually be for the best. 

It happens like this.  Arthur falls asleep in front of Turner Classic movies with a pizza on the coffee table and _Casablanca_ on the screen.  He wakes up sometime in the middle of the night when the trailer for the next movie, _Babes in Toyland_ , plays.  He wakes up reaching for a gun that isn’t there, wrenches his neck, and then grouses when he realizes he’s been scared awake by fucking Laurel and Hardy.  It isn’t good for his neck to stay on the couch, certainly not in the state it’s in now, so he drops the pizza off on the kitchen counter, practically inhales another slice and then makes his way to the bedroom.  As he’s drifting off he contemplates moving his to the bedside table, but the blankets he eventually washed are too warm and the pillow too soft and he drifts off remarkably quickly given his rude awakening.  And the next time he wakes up, for a couple of very long seconds he regrets not having moved his gun. 

When he wakes it isn’t music that jolts him to alertness.  Nor is it any other kind of noise.  This time someone is touching him.  They’re kneeling on his bed with a hand on his neck.  Arthur comes awake fighting.  He flips the intruder off his bed and onto the floor, following them over the edge and pinning them with their hands beneath their back and his forearm shoved up against their, oh, his, Adam’s apple.  Arthur is panting, wrestling his intruder into submission, pinning him more deftly, before finally realizing that he isn’t actually fighting back.  Arthur looks up at the man’s face and blanches.  _Eames._ Oh for fucks sake.  Arthur moves his forearm a bit to give him room to breathe, but he doesn’t let him go just yet.  Arthur may be nice, but he’s not stupid, and Eames did just break into his fucking house.  A house that he shouldn’t actually know about. 

Still a bit frazzled Arthur pants out “ _Eames._ What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”

And Eames.  Fucking Eames, _grins_ up at him, drawling “Just checking you’re alive, darling.”

“I don’t really see why that’s any of your concern, to be honest.  And even if it were you broke into my house, I know you’re a thief, but honestly, Eames is this some sort of joke?  Come to pinch my valuables, have you?”

At that Eames has the audacity to look briefly hurt, but he pushes on calmly, stating, “Arthur, darling, you haven’t answered your phone in nearly two weeks.  Cobb was worried.  _I_ was even worried.”

“Even so, you didn’t need to break in,” hisses Arthur, pressing Eames harder into the floor. 

Eames tosses his head back and laughs, canting his hips up against Arthur’s, and simpers coyly, “Oh Arthur you could have just asked.  And shouldn’t I get a safeword, anyway?”

Arthur looks down at Eames first in confusion and then dawning horror.  He’s hard.  Achingly, blindingly hard, and his cock is pressed against Eames’ hip.  He jumps to his feet, feeling the hot blood flush his face and throws himself onto the bed, dragging the blankets across his hips and mumbling something about adrenaline or fighting or something. Eames just gets up and stretches slowly, cracking his back and rubbing absentmindedly at his neck.  Arthur feels a momentary flush of shame, but quickly tamps it down, because after all it’s Eames’ own fault, wishing he could suppress other things quite so easily. 

“Oh, so it wasn’t having me in a submissive position that got you going then?” purrs Eames.

“No. Besides, I’m not . . . I don’t.”

“Don’t have sex?”

“I have sex.”

“Don’t have sex with men? Don’t want someone to submit to you? Don’t want to have sex with me?”

Arthur grinds out, “No.  None of that. Well, I haven’t anyway, and I don’t intend to.  Now what’s this about Dom?”

“He’s worried.  We both tried calling, but apparently you’re an entitled little shit who can’t be bothered to plug in his goddamn phone. “

“You can just fuck right off,” growls Arthur, but he does plug in his phone.  When it powers up he’s got about fifty text messages and a dozen voicemails.  He taps out a text to Dom, tosses his phone down on the bedside table, and glares up at Eames.  “There, are you happy now?”

“No.  But I will be,” yawns Eames as he leans past Arthur to snatch a pillow, “Thanks for letting me sleep on the couch. It really is the least you can do since I had to fly out here.”

Arthur starts to open his mouth to argue with him, but thinks better of it, remembering the heat of Eames’ breath against his face, the hardness of his thighs between his.  He shudders, deciding that in this case, a little break from him is just what he needs before the next inevitable argument.  Flopping down onto his back, Arthur tries in vain to get comfortable, but his neck really is wrenched from earlier, and his damn cock is so hard he can barely think.  Fine.  Fine.  He’s hard.  And it has nothing to do with Eames.  Or even if it has a little to do with Eames it’s mostly adrenaline, and he’s been too busy to fuck.  Hell, he’s been too busy to wank.  So he tells himself it’s fine, and it’s just an autonomic response.  And if he pictures Eames’ face when he slides a hand into his pajamas then no one will ever know.  And if he imagines Eames’ hot breath on his cock as he flicks a thumb across the tip then no one will ever know.  And if he moans Eames’ name as he comes, nearly blacking out from the force of the orgasm, then no one will ever know.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is wrong. Eames is naughty. And the plot, among other things, thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a while since I started this. I fully intended to work on it, but I couldn't figure out how to get them to where I needed them to be. Eventually I came up with this solution.  
> I apologize for the long wait, and the unbetaed work. Commas are not my forte. I hope the porn makes up for it.  
> Enjoy! Let me know if you do, or if you don't! All feedback is useful feedback.

Arthur is really having a banner day.  He doesn’t really know everything he’s in for yet, and he’s already decidedly screwed. 

See, the thing is, after Eames teased Arthur fairly mercilessly, and watched in glee as he turned hopelessly, helplessly red (and was he panting more, were his pupils so dilated they’d taken over his irises?), Eames had fucked off to the couch.  Better to let Arthur stew for a while, and if he was being perfectly honest, Eames was more than a little tired. 

Dom had called him a few days before, frantic with worry, and about to fly across the country in an effort to look for Arthur.  Eames was so surprised that Dom was thinking of anyone but himself that he didn’t even needle him.  It was, Arthur, after all, and Eames would have gladly flown around the _world_ for him.  It didn’t take circumnavigation, fortunately, but Arthur had quite a lot of bolt holes, and Eames had started from LA and worked his way East.  After three days of non-stop flights and empty, dusty apartments, Eames had finally broken into Arthur’s New York apartment.  Arthur had looked so very pale and still against his red sheets, and Eames’ heart dropped through his stomach.  Eames reached out to touch his throat, but he hadn’t actually managed to take Arthur’s pulse at all.  Eames found out Arthur was alive by being tackled by him, and he had never been _quite_ so glad to be thrown to the ground by a brilliantly sexy man.  After catching his breath and explaining his presence (did Arthur really think he might be there to harm him?), Eames considered saying something to that effect.  Then he felt Arthur, hot and hard against his hip through threadbare pajamas, and it took almost all his brain power to limit himself to one little hip thrust.  Eames was a nice guy, no matter what Arthur seemed to think, but even he wasn’t a saint.  When he was presented with all of his best fantasies wrapped up in the most enthralling package he knows, well,  Eames thinks that it’s more than a little impressive that he didn’t come in his trousers, or at least rut against that incredible arse.  To be honest, he’s glad he didn’t push too far because when Arthur scrambled into bed and yanked his covers up around him, well . . . he looked a little freaked out.  Definitely confused. 

So Eames is actually pretty chuffed that he’s got a good reason to not continue the conversation.  He’d always thought Arthur was at least a little bent, and even if the attraction were just to him and not the power struggle, well he could handle that.  Yeah.  He could do vanilla.  Absolutely.  Especially if it meant he had a chance with Arthur.  But he wasn’t quite so sure anymore after the look on Arthur’s face, and so he took himself and his pathetic crush and settled on the couch, untying his laces, and toeing off his shoes. 

After a few minutes he dragged himself to his feet, snagged his toothbrush from his bag, and went in search of a bathroom.  He felt grimy, but if he could just clean his teeth and splash some water on his face he’d be alright to sleep.  He’d slept in worse. 

As Eames made his way down the hallway past Arthur’s room he heard a quiet gasp, and froze.  Eames didn’t think he’d been followed, and frankly there wasn’t anyone out to get either of them as far as he knew, but one should always be careful, so he crept back to Arthur’s bedroom door and took a peek. 

It wasn’t an intruder.  It was just Arthur.  On his back. Propped up on pillows and legs spread indolently.  And he had his cock in one hand; the other lazily playing with his nipples through his tee-shirt.  Eames knew he should turn around and walk away.  Eames was many things, but he wasn’t stupid.  He knew it was a violation of Arthur’s privacy.  He knew he shouldn’t be watching.  And he knew that eventually it would come back to bite him, but he’d been dreaming for too long, PASIV-assisted and otherwise, about this very situation, among others, and he kept watching. He shoved his fist against his mouth to stifle a groan as Arthur started to move faster, hips jerking as he furiously fisted his cock.  Eames stood and watched, toothbrush falling from nerveless fingers, as a flush spread across Arthur’s neck and face, and his breaths came louder and louder.   Eames pressed his face against the doorjamb, straining to get as close as possible.  He wanted to touch, to taste, to feel that cock that had been pressed against his hip only a few minutes before.  And then Arthur shuddered, back bowing, elegant neck arched as he came.  And he was moaning.

“Eames. Oh god, Eames.”

And that was enough.  Eames stumbled away from the bedroom, down the hall and into the bathroom that was, conveniently, not too far from where he’d been standing.  Eames fumbled with the door. Trying to close and lock it with one hand, while the other hand was occupied with the much more important pursuit of his cock.  When the door was locked and his pants and trousers were pooled on the floor Eames flailed about for a moment looking for something lube like, and eventually decided on some very pricy looking conditioner that only someone as hair obsessed as Arthur would use.  The scent of Arthur’s hair filled the room as Eames coated his fingers with the conditioner and leant a shoulder against the wall, groaning.  Eames wrapped one hand around his cock, sighing as he stroked the hot flesh, and used his other hand to spread his arse cheeks, and circle the tight pink pucker of his anus with cool, slick, conditioner coated fingers.  He was panting already, and there wasn’t any time for teasing, so he thrust two fingers inside himself quickly and roughly, relishing the burn and stretch.  He fucked himself on his fingers, curling them to brush against his prostate.  Gasping with pleasure, Eames opened his eyes in surprise and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.  He was wrecked.  His hair was in disarray from his wrestling match with Arthur. His skin was pinked and covered in a sheen of sweat from working so furiously to get off.  And he looked utterly debauched.  And he was in Arthur’s bathroom.  And he was wanking with Arthur’s conditioner.  And Arthur was not 50 feet away, wrapped up in red sheets and covered in his own come.  And he’d come saying Eames’ name.  And that last thought sent Eames hurtling over the edge.  Eames nearly bit through his lip trying to stay quiet as he worked his throbbing cock through a pretty spectacular orgasm. 

When Eames finally came back to his senses he gently slid his fingers out of his ass, whimpering from oversensitivity as he brushed his prostate.  Eames pushed himself off the wall and went to wash his hands, unable to stifle a snort at the mess he’d made of himself.  He had come in his hair, come on his shirt.  Arthur would be pleased probably.  Even Eames recognized that this particular shirt was bordering on terrible.  It looked like he’d be sleeping in his pants, then.  It wouldn’t do to get come on Arthur’s couch.  Eames slid on his pants, finished his ablutions (including rinsing the come out of his hair in the sink) and gathered up his clothes.  Within minutes he was splayed out on Arthur’s decadently comfortable couch, wrapped in a throw that smelled like him, asleep on one of his pillows.  All thoughts of clean teeth abandoned just inside Arthur’s bedroom door next to his toothbrush.


End file.
